Me: This week is People Week right here on the D.S. Show. We'll be looking at classic personality types and inviting living examples of them to come out here and tell us more about their fascinating lives. Tonight I thought we'd get things rolling with a personality type that tends to favour men, the 'superstud'. And with us, to share the secrets of his astonishing success, the dynamic, the procreative ... Chet Chalmers!
(Applause. Enter Chalmers. Greetings.)
Me: You have racked up quite an impressive record from what my research team tells me. How did you become so successful with women?
Chalmers: I guess they like the way I treat them.
Me: So how do you treat them?
Chalmers: Like bitches that need training.
Me: Bitches?
Chalmers: That's right. Women are like dogs. They're loyal to their masters. They like to be petted. They like going for walks in the park. And as long as it's in private, they don't mind a friendly game of fetch or eating from a dog dish with no knife and no fork or being dragged around the floor naked on a leash.
Me: They like that?
Chalmers: They always crawl back for more.
Me: And if you treat them with respect?
Chalmers: They trample you. One of my new pets broke up with her fiance to spend the night with me. He gave her a box of chocolates. I ate the candy and made her sit up and beg for a Milkbone.
Me: So that macho stuff really works, eh?
Chalmers: It does for me.
Me: What kind of work are you in, by the way?
Chalmers: I'm one of those guys that has to put on a protective suit and let police dogs have their way with me.
Me: Sounds rough.
Chalmers: It is.
Me: But the women love you for it.
Chalmers: Yeah, but I still can't find a woman who can offer any real sympathy for the work I do.
Me: Are you sure about that? They sound pretty sympathetic to me.
Chalmers: They don't to me.
Me: Why not?
Chalmers: (after a contemplative pause) I just don't hear it in the way they bark.
Me: Too bad. Can't have it all, I guess. But thank you for being on the show. Chet Chalmers, everyone!
(Commercial.)
Me: Our next guest is a man who invented his very own love potion. Professor Glen Philistein!
(Applause. Enter Philistein in a white lab coat.)
Me: Professor, I'm not out to give you a hard time, but if this love potion of yours is as effective as you say, why isn't it available in a pharmacy near me?
Philistein: Not at all. Glad you asked. It's because it isn't ready for public consumption yet. It only works on me.
Me: Oh. Will you be developing one for the mass market?
Philistein: I'm not sure.
Me: Why not?
Philistein: Because I don't want to lose my competitive edge over other men.
Me: But you'd make a fortune.
Philistein: To spend on what? Women? (He laughs.)
Me: No, you wouldn't need it for them. All right then. How does this potion work?
Philistein: Well, the science behind it is rather complex. It is an airborne neural stimulater which finds its target in an attractive woman's olfactory receptors.
Me: (after a moment to comprehend his words) Perfume?
Philistein: Yes!
Me: I'm not smelling anything now.
Philistein: I neutralized it for this program, so our interview wouldn't be constantly interrupted by excited young girls.
Me: Neutralized it? You mean you showered?
Philistein: It doesn't wash off.
Me: Then how do you neutralize it?
Philistein: I smear my skin with animal faeces.
Me: (after pausing to think of a question) Dog? Cow?
Philistein: Bat. It's more potent.
Me: Why can't I smell it?
Philistein: Neutralized by the sweet smell of my potion.
Me: (sniffing curiously) Yes, it must be sweet.
Philistein: Detectable by sexy women at a range of up to fifty yards.
Me: Let's hear it again for the very cultured Professor Glen Philistein! (Applause.) The perfect date for an evening at the beach - in a large body of water that is at least neck deep.
*********************************************
Commercial: The Jizz Jar
(A creepy looking man in a playground draws suspicion from a young mother.)
Mother: What are you doing here?
Man: Are you married?
Mother: No, but what does that -
(She screams as he lunges forward and tries to lick her. Park attendants in reflective vests appear and drag him off.)
Announcer: Don't let your progeny depend on obsolete pick-up methods. Get with the times, and get the all new Jizz Jar!
(Show man with product, reading instructions.)
Announcer: Made of one hundred percent American plastic, the Jizz Jar has all it takes to sustain the continuity of your ancestral line. It's sterile, mailable, and even comes with one of our finest erotic magazines to help you get in the mood.
(The man has returned to the playground. The young mother is there with a child who bears a creepy resemblance to the man. He tries to greet the child, but the mother screams and runs away.)
Announcer: The Jizz Jar. Get it while you're hot.
*********************************************
Me: Our last stud this evening is a highly decorated combat veteran who says the ladies love his broad shoulders, thick forearms, and clean, masculine face. Let's all welcome Punky Martin!
(Applause. Enter the scrawny, effeminate Martin in a denim jacket. I get up to greet him and make an awkward show of my much greater corporeal mass as the camera catches us standing side-by-side for a second. We go to our seats.)
Me: You are much smaller than I imagined.
Martin: Why?
Me: Why? Did you not hear the introduction? From the description you gave us I was expecting someone with a decidedly more Herculean bearing.
Martin: (smiling) Yes, your people must have misunderstood me. I'm a poet, so I often speak in metaphors.
Me: Metaphors. Gotcha. I often have the same problem. So you're not a big, tough soldier; you're a slight, sensitive artist.
Martin: The kind that chicks dig.
Me: Right. Those women just love a man with strong language skills. Could you treat us to one of your well thought out pick-up lines?
Martin: Sure. Wanna hear the one I coined for the honeys on the public transit system?
Me: Please.
Martin: I move in close, look her in the eye, and say 'I know you want me.' Then I dismiss her reply and say 'Because of the absolute bliss that I can bring to your body, the warm waves of pleasure starting in your little doorbell and ringing, yes, ring-a-linging out across your tender form to the very tips of your extremities, slowly, firmly overtaking you until you find yourself willingly locked in throbbing starfish ecstasy.' (Pause.) What do you think?
Me: Kinda long.
Martin: Oh? Perhaps it's too sophisticated to be understood by a musician.
Me: What's that supposed to mean?
Martin: Can't you figure that out either?
Me: Listen you little twerp, you better mind your tone or I'll show you a pick-up line that ends with you being hurled out that window! (to camera) Back with a song after these important messages, folks!
Martin: You're not strong enough.
Me: Oh yeah? How much do you weigh?
Martin: A hundred and ninety pounds.
Me: Bullshit! That's five pounds heavier than I was before I started writing again! What kind of -
(Commercial.)
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